


Beat the Devil

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: shackinup_sesa, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, Shacking Up Secret Santa, Smoking, virgin sirius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-05
Updated: 2006-01-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The frustration is likely to kill him before the Death Eaters do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beat the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to angelgazing and mousapelli for listening, and to laurificus for betaing. Written for wildestranger in the shackinup_sesa. Her requests were: 1. post-Hogwarts pre-azkaban era; 2. prostitution; 3. virginal-Sirius; and 4. red wine

It's pissing down rain when Sirius steps out of the abandoned tenement that serves as Order headquarters, for this week at least. He flips up the collar of his leather jacket and shivers as cold water slips inside, sliding down his neck. He flicks his fag to the ground, grinds it out with the heel of his boot. The dingy yellow glow of a nearby streetlamp gives the pavement a greasy look, damp and slick with oil from leaking cars, and the smell of cat piss is nearly overwhelming.

"You always pick such charming spots when we go sightseeing," Remus says, his low voice like a warm blanket Sirius wants to wrap himself up in to keep out the chill of the evening.

"I'm a man of discerning taste," he answers, easily falling into the rhythm of their banter, honed from seven years of living together. "See the wossname on that building there?"

"The cornice?"

"Yeah, that, the cornice. Carved to look like Rarg the Rapacious, leader of the Goblin Rebellion of 1464." He wants to put his arm around Remus's shoulders, lay his hand on the nape of Remus's neck, stroke the soft skin there, the dusting of freckles at the base of Remus's throat, too light to see from far away. Instead, he pulls out another fag, taps it against the back of his hand and puts it in his mouth.

Remus is ready with a match, the smell of sulfur and wood beating back the scent of cat piss for a moment, and when the cigarette is lit, he lets the match burn down until the bright orange flame touches his fingernail, then flicks it down into a nearby puddle.

Sirius shifts, takes a drag and blows the smoke out of his nose in two elegant streams, nervous energy humming under his skin like lightning. "Lucky that wasn't a puddle of petrol. Could have ended us both right here."

Remus shrugs. "Didn't smell like petrol."

"You and mad your games." Remus raises an eyebrow, and Sirius laughs, breaking the somber mood. "Come on," he says. "It's too cold to stand out here all night being philosophical, you daft bugger." Remus hesitates, and Sirius feels his stomach clench in fear, or possibly jealousy. "If you have plans," he drawls as if he doesn't care, "I'll just find my own fun."

Remus grins ruefully. "No plans. No money, either."

"I thought you worked this week."

"I did, but then Mr. DeVilbis discovered my shocking secret and refused to pay me." He says it lightly, but Sirius can hear the bitterness seeping through.

"That fucking cunt."

"Indeed."

"Let me buy you many drinks to make up for it." Sirius hates that Remus is resigned to this treatment; he wonders where his bright, enthusiastic Moony went, only nine months out of school.

"The local?"

Sirius wrinkles his nose. "I don't know why you're so attached to that place. It smells of stale beer and grease, and someone's always being sick in the gents'."

"We can't all be aristocrats, dining at the Ritz."

"You just like it because that bar wench, wossname, lets you drink for free."

Remus's dimples make a lightning fast appearance as his mouth quirks into a quick grin, there long enough to make Sirius want to kiss him and then gone before he can. "Yeah."

"Well, I can get free drinks anywhere."

"Yeah," Remus repeats, laughing now, reaching out for Sirius's fag and wrapping his thin lips around it. Sirius stops breathing for a moment, stares at Remus: brown hair lank and plastered to his head in the rain, smoke wreathing his face, blurring his features for a moment, the yellow light reflecting gold in his brown eyes.

He hands the cigarette back and Sirius breathes again, smoke-and-Remus scented air, the taste of Remus in his mouth now, maybe the only way he'll ever have it.

"The Lethifold," he says, because everybody goes there, and maybe around other people he can forget how much he wants Remus and can finally settle on someone else, since Remus may or may not want him -- Sirius is never sure -- but even if he does, Remus will never allow himself the opportunity to have him.

"Too crowded." Remus grabs his elbow, long fingers white against the black leather of his jacket. "Come on."

Instead of Apparating, Remus leads him through the streets, weaving through the throngs of people out for the evening. The neighborhood they end up in is nicer, but not too nice; there are shops and pubs and a little Italian restaurant with a red and white striped awning and three forlorn white tables sitting on the sidewalk, their brightly printed umbrellas tightly closed against the wind.

Remus leads him inside and the host smiles at Remus as if he's a regular, and leads them to a quiet booth in the back, the red leather soft and worn, the red and white chequered tablecloth spotless.

Dinner is good, accompanied by a surprisingly fine red wine chosen above every other type of alcohol because Sirius knows it makes Remus loose, reckless, and prone to laugh out loud at his own crude jokes. He gesticulates wildly as he describes his day, banishing boggarts and degnoming gardens for the idle rich, some of whom they were at school with, "and who will no longer acknowledge my existence. If they ever did before," he adds wryly.

Sirius growls softly. "You're worth a dozen of them, any day."

Remus laughs and brushes his index finger down Sirius's cheek, a shocking bit of touch that makes Sirius's heart stutter for a moment. He knows it's the wine, nothing more. Remus is always a little more willing to touch and be touched when he's pissed.

"Only to you." His voice is low, rough, and Sirius's heart once again develops a stutter, and he wonders if he's going to need a mediwitch before the night is over.

Remus's mouth is wet and red in the lamplight, and Sirius wants to lean in and lick at his lips, drink from that cup, press him back against the back of the booth and-- This is always where his fantasies stall, because he knows he shouldn't be having these feelings for one of his best mates, but he _does_ , and the frustration is likely to kill him before the Death Eaters do.

After dinner, they stand at the nearly empty bar, all dark wood paneling and brightly polished copper, cool beneath their elbows. They drink and smoke, Sirius spending the funny Muggle money like it's nothing but the paper it's printed on, and Remus, for once, letting him.

There is a dark-haired woman in a short blue dress watching them, and Sirius smiles rakishly at her when she catches his eye.

"She's a hooker, you know," Remus says, amused, and Sirius flushes.

"I don't-- I don't need to pay for it," he snaps.

"I never thought you _had_ to," Remus says, "but I thought maybe you _wanted_ to." He shrugs a shoulder. "You've been edgy lately. I mean, more than usual."

"We _are_ in the middle of a war, even if nobody's calling it that yet."

Remus shakes his head. "Feels like more than that."

Sirius shrugs, torn between fear that Remus has noticed something he shouldn't have and pleasure that he's noticed anything at all. It isn't like he hasn't had opportunities, but he had been almost singularly uninterested in the girls at school, and by the time he'd figured out he was interested in boys, in Remus, there'd been too many other things to worry about.

"So, do you?" he asks, and then curses silently, because he doesn't want to know.

Remus's gaze flicks to the woman and then back. "No. Couldn't afford it even if I wanted to."

"But you know her?"

"I eat here sometimes. She doesn't get much business on nights like this."

Still, Sirius doesn't want to take the chance Remus may change his mind. "Ready to go?" he asks abruptly, dropping another sheaf of notes on the bar. He leaves, doesn't wait to see if Remus follows.

Remus does.

Outside, the rain has stopped, and the air is thick with fog. It makes the night glow softly, droplets of water clinging to every surface, reflecting and refracting the muted light from the streetlamps.

They stumble a bit, shoulders and hips bumping, and Sirius thinks maybe they've had too much wine. But all the sharp edges are blurred and it feels good, so he doesn't think too much about it.

He takes out another cigarette -- the last in the pack -- and Remus once again lights it for him. They huddle close, and now Sirius does sling an arm around Remus's shoulders, tapping a light rhythm against his collarbones.

"My well-tempered clavier," Sirius murmurs, watching the flame lick down the match towards Remus's fingers. When it touches his thumbnail, Remus flips it into the gutter with a sigh. Sirius drops the cigarette, grabs his hand, raises it to his mouth, and wraps his lips around Remus's thumb.

Remus jerks to a halt. "Never took you for a thumbsucker," he says, the joking words belied by the heat in his voice, in his eyes when Sirius looks up.

"Never was, until now." Sirius holds his gaze, holds his hand, and the moment etches itself into his memory -- the taste of smoke and Remus, the fog-filtered yellow light haloing around them, Remus's eyes wide and dark, and his body very, very still.

"You dropped your cigarette." Remus's voice is carefully neutral, giving Sirius the chance to back out

"Fuck, Remus--"

And then Remus is shoving him back against the brick building, mouth closing over his, hot and wet and greedy. He tastes of red wine and garlic and too many cigarettes, and Sirius clutches at him desperately, afraid if he lets go, Remus will disappear in a puff of smoke and fog. Their teeth clack together and the wall is cold and wet at Sirius's back, and they should probably be worried someone will call the police on them, but Sirius doesn't care.

Remus pulls back finally, question clear in his eyes. Sirius nods once, tightening his fingers on Remus's shoulders.

"My flat," Remus says. "On three."

They Apparate together, and when they arrive at the tiny third-floor bedsit Remus is currently calling home, they stumble a bit in the darkness and land on the bed. Remus is a solid weight on top of him, muscle and bone moving with peculiar grace as they slide out of their damp clothes and underneath the nubbly sheets almost before Sirius can take in what's happening.

Doubt must show on his face because Remus breaks a kiss to ask, "All right?"

"Yeah, I," he drops his gaze, looks up through his lashes, "I've never--"

"Oh. Do you-- Should I--" He shakes his head, then buries his face against Sirius's neck, laughing. "Are you sure? I mean, me?"

"You," Sirius says, and means it. "Always and only." That wins him another fierce kiss, but now Remus eases off, teasing him with tongue and fingers and the slow, languid roll of his hips that Sirius thinks just might kill him.

He thrusts in return, urging Remus on with the stroke of his fingers over Remus's shoulders and the flexing muscles of his back and arse, with a steady stream of words that tumble from his lips and could be anything from the starting lineup of the 1977 Tutshill Tornadoes to the meaning of life -- right now he can't tell and he doesn't care. His universe has narrowed to the sweat-slicked slide of skin on skin. The tight ache in his belly and balls breaks just as it becomes unbearable. He comes with a hoarse shout, and he thinks he can feel Remus coming, too, warm and wet over their bellies and thighs.

Remus collapses on top of him with a satisfied sigh, and they lie there, breathing heavily, for a long while. It starts to rain again, beating against the lone window in a steady rhythm that sounds like home.

Eventually, he knows they will talk about it, or maybe they won't. Maybe they will just have it off together every night, and Remus will always have matches to light his cigarettes, and he will always buy Remus dinner, and from now on, the sound of rain on the window will always be the sound of home.

end

**Author's Note:**

> "Beat the devil" is a game we used to play with matches, where you hold the match and let it burn down as far as you can while still holding onto it, and whoever can hold on long enough that the whole matchstick burns wins.


End file.
